


The Problem With Violet

by MagnaAlmaMater



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: F/M, Growing Up, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violet-centric, teen sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 15:26:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19253941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagnaAlmaMater/pseuds/MagnaAlmaMater
Summary: In the aftermath of terribly devastating events with Count Olaf, Violet Baudelaire is left with scars which may never heal. Growing up would be probably confusing even without her dreaming of the man who hurt her. Since no one can guide her then, as all heroines, she must save herself.





	The Problem With Violet

**Author's Note:**

> This is almost 6 months old story which I never finished, so I'm getting rid of it here. You were deprived of a sex scene which I never wrote. What a shame.

He died of a bleeding wound side by side with Kit. His insides were torn apart by the harpoon, his lungs slowly filled with blood and under the shirt, his stomach had to be open wide as he laid next to his lover who suffered a very similar end. At that time she was too shocked to appreciate the dramatic irony of it, but later in life, it filled her with a sort of satisfying sorrow.

Klaus never shared her sentiment. But he never had much understanding of that kind of symbolism in the first place.

Instinctively she knew the man did something to her. She was intelligent enough to realize she was too young to fully understand the way he imprinted himself deep into her mind and soul. He influenced her in a way she couldn’t clearly describe or name and it almost drove her mad. She didn’t want to remember him, but he crawled into her thoughts during the day and night, when she read, when she cooked, when she nursed Beatrice, designed her machines, constructed them, talked with Klaus, when she did anything.

(Later, when she looked at other men, she only saw that they are not him. And she couldn’t say she felt relieved.)

He found it hilarious. In her dreams he took the ribbon of her hair and tied it around her neck. She felt it cut the thin skin there and knew it must be soaked with her blood.  
“You should see yourself,” he said in her ear. “You truly look like aristocracy, my countess. Your little neck prepared to snap in half, just like under a guillotine.”

She didn't know when she started to dream of him touching her. They were nightmares at first, of course. A terrible reminisce of touches which really happened and words which were spoken. It filled her with dread and her fear and helplessness kept waking her up to Klaus softly, holding her hand, saying that it's alright. That he had them too.

But scars Klaus bore were different. Olaf’s last words took him by the heart. He read the files, conducted extensive research and pieced the story together. Sometimes she even thought he perhaps romanticizes the man dangerously much, but she didn't know the poem and perhaps that's why it didn't affect her so.

“He basically gave us a clue to all of it. Well, not a clue, it's all there. It was his last rite. I'm not - I'm not saying he should be redeemed or anything, but I understand now how much injustice was done to him. He went through so much pain because his parents and our parents and we went through hell too. It's heritable. The world acts only on its own selfish impulses and if we are to break the wheel… The only moral is not to pass our mistakes to our descendants. By dying childless, we end our personal misery.”

She held little Beatrice and didn't feel like telling him that the man probably did have a child.  
On the other hand, truly nothing from the wound in his stomach was born.

And he feared fatherhood so much.

She went through their correspondence. It shocked her how foolish and unforgiving love could be even to an undeniably intelligent and brilliant woman like Kit Snicket. But in the end it was only another imprint she had to bear.  
The more she looked into the mirror, the more she saw a memory of her mother and wondered if that was why he hated her so.

Some idiot once dared to tell her that pedophiles are not the ones who hurt children, not usually, and while she wanted to curse that person with muteness so they would never say anything so stupid aloud, she had to partially agree. Although Olaf was very unapologetic about his desires, she believed that his interest in her was driven more by sadism than by genuine attraction.  
He hated the idea of her mother living and it wasn't enough that she died in the fire. He wanted to destroy any trace of her. He wanted to traumatize them all to the point where they would be too crippled to ever become their parents.

He almost succeeded.

The place on her throat still inched hours after when she woke up from her night terrors and she had to remind herself not to scratch it.

Then one night, his touches were different. It was like at the wedding, same hand brushing her shoulder, same words, everything, but in this dream he didn't speak to Klaus. “I'll touch whatever I want,” he said and it was spoken directly to her, there was no one else, and then his warm hand brushed the skin of her neck.   
She woke up in silent fear and something what she later recognized as an arousal. She didn't go back to sleep that night and the dream didn't come back to her. At least not unit these night months after that when she longed for it in a foolish curiosity.  
It only got worse from that. Adolescence is a very strange time in one’s life.

She never though yourself stupid, in fact, she was well aware of her brilliance, but that only caused her frustration grow. Unquestionably, she was too young to understand the full impact of his suggestions at the time they happened, which made the later realisation so devastating. Suddenly she found his attention both frightening and exhilarating and this pelicural mix of emotions only confused her more.  
She hated him for looking at her before she was old enough to be looked at, despised him for being the first one to even acknowledge her in such manner, yet she found herself longing for more recognition. As Sophia Tolstaya she longed to be the one to kill her tormentor if she only could be the one to bring him back too.  
After some time she came to accept no analysis, no rationalization, no sleepless nights she spent thinking about him and his actions all over and over again would defeat him. As the years passed sometimes she doubted she would ever recover, but when she looked at Sunny and Beatrice the second, both bright and auspicious, filling her with their light, living with a chronic ache in heart didn’t seem so hard.  
She started to read instead.

Klaus, concerned by her silent sorrow, told her that literature has answers for anything. Old stories are told over and over by generations for reason. They develop as they are told, they contain ages of human experience and they are meant to help us, for no experience is really unique if you look hard enough.  
It sounded like something their father would say, and she always liked fairy tales, so she decided to try it.  
From sentiment she turned herself to books her parents read her, but it seemed like the enjoyment of children's literature was lost to her. She only smiled at artificial morals some of these tales tried to teach, letting her humor prevent taking a personal offense in some of the characters’ fates. Still, she wondered what exactly was Susan to Aslan if he damned her so.  
And more importantly, what was Aslan to Susan.

The dreams didn’t go away and by the time she stopped caring. She kept waking up with reminiscence of Count’s touches in her mind and desperation which she would never have expected from herself. She wondered if there was ever any power a girl could have against her own body. When she let her fingers roam around her body, she played with an idea of engaging herself in such thoughts, but dismissed it for fear she would hate herself for it later. She presumed she is experiencing a kind of traumatic confusion and Klaus could probably name it better, since, unlike her, he actually engaged himself in studying psychoanalysis. But she never liked the field in the first place, so she decided not to bother him with it and decided to look for answers elsewhere.

It was actually an accident. She looked at some old photos and they were all of them. Their parents, Snickets and friends. Olaf and some people she didn’t recognize. She didn’t realize how attractive man Jacques Snicket was when she saw him these years ago. She dragged her finger over his united eyebrow and wondered if it meant anything. Then she remembered there was this superstition, that men with deep-set eyes whose eyebrows are united over the bridge of the nose, turn into wolves on the full moon. She knew it, she just forgot about it.

It was a weird image to be devoured by a wolf, just because you failed to see obvious signs of the danger. It felt quite familiar too. Perhaps that was what bothered her the most, why no one saw eyes which wanted to eat her, although she, only a child, knew instinctively they were up to no good.

She read many great books, fairy tales, collection, analogies, academic works and it almost caused her dropping the reading for good when she realized, were all written by men and their main dispute was whether the wolf was interested in taking Little Red Riding Hood into the bed before eating her. No one seemed to bother with a fact, a girl is no one’s meat. It seemed like she had to take the matter into her own hands.

That night she grabbed his hand.

“This is my mind. If you are going to touch me, it’ll be on my terms.”

She couldn’t see the man’s eyes, but his teeth when he grinned, were yellow and half rotten as always. “Is my little countess trying to rule now? Did you forget where is your place?”  
There wasn’t a hint of humor in his voice and she would lie, if she said she wasn’t frightened. Still, she didn’t let his wrist go.  
“My name is Violet. And I belong only to myself.”  
It wasn’t her best line, but it made him falter. That filled her with confidence. There was nothing to fear now, after all.  
She consciously pulls his hand under her shirt, letting his warm fingers touch her breast.

“I told you. All you need is to accept, you want me,” he tried to laugh at her, but now, when wasn’t afraid of his gaze anymore, she could meet his eyes directly.  
“Yes,” she said. “But I don’t have to accept _you_ want me.”  
He was a weak man, cowardly and broken. She figured out his exact fears a long time ago. He scared her for life, but didn’t cripple her.  
“If you think, I’ll accommodate myself to you, you are mistaken.” She climbed over him and pulled his hair so his head fell back.  
When she woke up, she felt satisfied and for the first time in ages, calm.

Years later, her legend will precede her. Voices will say that she's intelligent and enchanting. That, when you meet her, you’ll find she’s really pretty. She keeps her shoulders up and her voice is confident. She seems to favor simple jewelry, moderately sweet coffee and classical music. At first you may feel like she doesn't care for you. But when she smiles at you, you will love her.

She wears a white dress. Just like her mother.

 


End file.
